


burnt toast sunday

by ashlearose13



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Ballet, Coffee, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Plants, Sexy Times, Tattoos, clint barton loves coffee and natasha romanov, i cant think of anymore tags lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/pseuds/ashlearose13
Summary: Clint tattoos people for a living, but he wouldn't be able to put up with all of the infinity symbols if it weren't for coffee. Specifically, coffee made by Natasha Romanov. The girl he has a real life, big-boy crush on.or, the tattoo shop/coffee shop/plant??/ballet mega-au that no one asked for.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 169





	burnt toast sunday

**Author's Note:**

> she's finally done!! this fic was a marathon but i'm so happy and excited to finally share it!! big thanks to Shelby (@clintasherson on twitter) for 1, giving me the idea for this fic and 2, freaking out over tattoos with me 😻 
> 
> so it got out of hand but honestly when do my fics ever go to plan lmao. hope you guys enjoy and maybe when i have more time and am not running late for work i'll attach links to the tattoos i talk about!! but rn i g2g so thanks for reading!! enjoy my lil baby!!

> pauses, then says
> 
> you're my, best friend.
> 
> and you knew, what it was.
> 
> he is, in love
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, "You Are in Love"

Clint doesn’t usually get antsy standing in line for coffee, but he’s got a 9:00am appointment and about thirty seconds to get there. He isn’t usually late, either, but Lucky knocked over a dozen dead plants that morning and he’d been up to his elbows in soil for hours, and now he is smack-bang in the middle of the morning rush.

It’s not like he even really needs the coffee, anyway. Kate always tells him he drinks too much of it and he _was_ trying to cut back, but then they opened that café across the road and Clint hasn’t tasted a better cold brew since. It’s easy, it’s delicious, and it means he gets to spend about a minute in Natasha’s company too, so.

She looks as bored as she ever does, hair piled atop her head like she doesn’t care, and Clint knows for a fact that she doesn’t. She’s only made his coffee like four times, but it’s left an impression. Plus, she has at least one tattoo that he knows of and an ear full of piercings, and it’s perhaps the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Needs to be extra large today,” he calls to her once his regular order is put through the register. He ducks off to the side, coming to rest against the counter in front of the espresso machine. “If I told you my demon dog killed all of my plants.”

“If I told you that _you_ killed all of your plants,” Natasha replies, her voice thick and rich like honey. She rolls her eyes and picks up her Sharpie, then gives him a very thorough once-over. “You look like shit.”

“Language!” Steve, the manager, calls, squeezing past her and shooting Clint an apologetic look. “There are children here.”

Natasha casts her gaze over the line. “Show me one child, Rogers.”

Steve pauses for barely a second, ears turning red, and then continues past her to the stock room. Clint likes the guy, sure, and his coffees are probably second best to Natasha, but he has to laugh at his embarrassment. Steve means well, even if he acts like a ninety-something year old trapped in a thirty-year olds body.

Natasha slides his drink across to him before he can think of something witty to say, then grabs a chocolate donut out of the cake display and bags it. “You need to water your plants, Barton.”

Clint doesn’t really understand Natasha’s thing with last names, but he doesn’t let it bother him anymore. “I didn’t order that.”

She rolls her eyes, lips pulling up at the corners. “I’m saving your life. Take it before I change my mind.”

“Whatever you say,” he teases, but snags the donut off the counter. He can smell the coffee before he even raises it to his mouth; extra strong, a drop of milk for calcium purposes, exactly as he likes it. She's written _Shit Head_ on the side of his cup in cursive. “Thanks.”

Natasha just rolls her eyes again, then sets to making her next coffee with all the enthusiasm of someone having their teeth pulled out. Clint could stand here annoying her for hours, but he knows that Steve will be back behind the counter soon and then he’ll have to explain the donut, or worse: actually pay for it. So he hauls ass without looking back, only five minutes late to open his store and start with the first customer of the day.

He likes to imagine Natasha watching him go, but he can never be sure that she is.

Clint likes tattooing because of its precision, the straight lines and shading that really make a piece pop, but if he ever has to tattoo another infinity symbol on a young girls body he might just call it quits.

His clients before lunch are actually nice kids, and he _is_ glad that they decided to get matching tattoos instead of the blood pact they had agreed on as 13 year olds, but still. There’s a lot of giggling and hand squeezing, which he doesn’t really care about so long as they sit still and let him finish.

Kate peers over his shoulder to watch. “If I flirt with Natasha will she give me a free donut too?”

“Who says I was flirting?” Clint says without batting an eye.

“You’re so obvious it physically pains me,” Kate moans. She throws herself into the chair he had pulled over for his client’s friend. “You’re like a love-sick puppy.”

“Take a breath for me Claudia,” Clint tells his client, momentarily pulling the gun from the skin over her ribs. Her face is a shade of red he doesn’t like to see.

“Ribs tickle,” Kate says, and she probably could have been more reassuring but Clint will take it. “We’ve seen a lot of tough guys cry over ribs, you know.”

Claudia smiles and takes a few deep breaths. Her friend Emma squeezes her hand and Clint glances at the clock, needing to get this over with if he wants to have his lunch on time. He should’ve left this one to Kate, but she had been leading the infinity symbol tally ever since a group of sorority girls had stumbled in on his one day off and he would be damned if she bet him this month.

He resumes tattooing right as Kate starts talking again. “You heard the bit about the love-sick puppy, right?”

“Did I tell you what Lucky did this morning?” he deflects. “I need to get some more plants, actually.”

Kate wheels herself over to his desk and writes it down on a sticky note, slapping it on top of his wallet. “Natasha could probably help.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “She probably could.”

Kate makes the kind of noise that Clint takes to mean she’s pleased, but he’s finally finished the tattoo and Claudia didn’t pass out once, so he’s more worried about getting her cleaned up and on her way so he can go eat his lunch. For her part, Kate takes over the payment and after-care spiel, and he’s already snuck out the back door before she can corner him about Natasha again.

Which is a good thing, because Natasha is waiting for him in the alley. He manages to hide his surprise, but only just.

“Donut was pretty good, but definitely not the best,” he tells her. “I’m gonna guess Steve made it, cause it needed like, ten more spoons of sugar.”

Natasha takes a long drag from her cigarette and smirks. “Not everything is made to rot your teeth, Barton.”

Clint shrugs and sits on the back step. He doesn’t really know Natasha well enough yet, having only met her when the café opened, but he _is_ pretty good at reading people and he’s gathered that she only smokes when she's stressed, or something. The _or something_ is what stops him from asking if she’s okay.

“Anyway, it was a good breakfast regardless,” Clint says.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Natasha confirms.

“My mother never taught me that,” Clint scoffs, then wonders if maybe they aren’t good enough friends yet to talk about that kind of stuff. She makes his coffee and he literally just dumped half his childhood trauma on her. Kate would be unimpressed.

“My mama did,” Natasha says bitterly. “In Soviet Russia, breakfast eats you.”

Clint laughs a little, but mainly to cover the fact that he doesn’t really get what Natasha is trying to imply. He unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite. He isn’t really sure why she would be lurking about behind his shop, but he isn’t about to ask her.

His front window lines up perfectly with the café and he’s watched her leave at exactly this time for the past two months, though it’s not like he’s been actively trying to catch her. Sure, he might have a crush on her, and sure, she makes the best coffee he’s ever tasted, but. He’s not a creep and he respects the fact that they just talk, occasionally.

And now apparently eat lunch together. In an alleyway. That smells of piss.

“You stand like that often?” Clint asks to break the silence, gesturing to Natasha’s feet.

She unfolds them and drops her cigarette to the ground, stamping it out. “Some habits are hard to break.”

“Right,” Clint chuckles. His sandwich isn’t that great, and he’s not convinced the ham isn’t off. “You a dancer or something?”

Natasha has a strange look on her face. Clint wraps the remainder of his sandwich up and tosses it into a trashcan. His stomach is already feeling a little queasy. He should’ve just ordered another coffee.

“Or something,” Natasha says eventually, hands shoved into her jacket pockets. “Better head back before Steve calls 911.”

“Right,” Clint says again. How did he accidentally stumble into an ‘or something’ moment that had nothing to do with how she was feeling? “Guess I’ll see you around.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything else as she leaves, and Clint still hasn’t figured out exactly what she was doing there anyway. He doesn’t really mind that much, and is actually kind of glad that he got to chat with her for a little longer than usual, even if it was weird and maybe awkward.

He sighs and stands, because even if he has at least twenty more minutes left for his break he’s already bored being on his own. Annoying Kate sounds like a much better idea. Besides, it’ll take his mind off whatever _that_ was.

Clint spends the next 48 hours throwing his guts up, and then the rest of the week feeling too sorry for himself to actually leave his apartment. He spends most of the day in bed, Lucky curled at his feet or against his back, and when he feels game enough he nibbles on some crackers and sips water.

He has Kate’s sticky note still plastered to his wallet and somewhere between puking and hallucinating he had added _throw out the fucking ham_ to the bottom of it. He has a dozen texts from her letting him know which clients she could take over for him and which ones he needs to reschedule, but its quite honestly the least of his worries. He hasn’t showered in a week.

Eight days after he ate the ham sandwich he manages to stumble into the bathroom and stand under the spray for a solid hour until he feels kind of like a real person again. His face is paler than usual but all in all he doesn’t look like death warmed up anymore, and his hand doesn’t shake when he finally shaves.

Cleaning the fridge makes his stomach turn again. He takes the rubbish down to the dumpster with him and walks to the nearest florists. He likes plants, and it’s not like he actually _wants_ them to die, but it also requires a lot of effort and Clint doesn’t know if he possesses the patience to make it work. Still, he leaves with a bird’s nest fern and something called a prayer plant, assured that even he will be able to keep them alive so long as he follows the instructions.

By the time he reaches the bodega his body is halfway to shutting down again, so of course he bumps into Natasha.

“You look – ”

“Like shit,” he interrupts tiredly. “Yea. I know.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Do _I_ want to know?”

“Bad ham,” Clint says. “And a cold, I think. It was an interesting combination.”

“I bet,” she says, scrunching her nose. “I thought you must be dead to not be drinking coffee.”

“Were you sad?” Clint teases. He’s not even sure what kind of food he wants to buy. They’re standing in front of the peaches so he grabs one for the sake of it.

“Devastated,” Natasha deadpans. “We just wouldn’t survive without your weekly contribution.”

Clint likes joking around with Natasha. It’s natural and nice, the kind of friendship he had always wanted growing up. And it’s not even like they’ve ever hung out before; it’s just _that_ easy with her, like they’ve been friends their whole lives.

“If I told you that I knew the ham was off,” Clint says.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “If I told you that you’re an idiot.”

“Fair call,” Clint chuckles. “Haven’t seen you at this bodega before. Do you live nearby?”

“Around the corner,” Natasha answers, with just the hint of a smile. “I’m banking on you not murdering me.”

“I would never,” Clint swears. “Maybe I’ll get to see you around a little more now. You know, instead of just for morning coffee.”

“Yea,” Natasha agrees softly. Clint can see tins of cat food and a bunch of asparagus in her basket. He wonders what kind of cat she has. “Guess I’ll see you around then, Barton.”

Kate pushes her chair away from the desk and rubs at her eyes, blinking blearily. “This is gonna take at least three sessions.”

Clint’s been stuck on the same design too. The client wants an elaborate back piece, but it’s just hovering on the edge of _too_ elaborate, and Clint doesn’t want to commit to a design until he’s absolutely sure of it. He’d already had to reschedule the guy though, so he can't really push it back again.

“Want me to order dinner?” Kate asks. “It’s past 7.”

Clint glances at the clock and curses. So much for an easy start back at work. “You don’t have to stay, Kate.”

She scoffs. “Of course I'm staying. This thing ain't gonna draw itself and I'm sorry, boss, but you’re just not as good at cartoons as I am.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. “Pizza or Chinese?”

Half an hour later Clint has a box of vegetarian Chow Mein in his lap, still a little nervous to have any kind of meat after his ordeal of the last week. The sketch looks good, but he’s just not entirely sure it meets all of his clients needs, and Kate is right: his cartoons are not as good, even if it’s only the Simpsons.

“What a stupid tattoo,” he mutters, stabbing at his noodles. “Why do you want the Simpsons on the USS Enterprise anyway?”

Kate shrugs, mouth full of Kung Pao chicken. “Maybe he just likes them?”

“But why does the fucking ship have to be realistic if we’re just gonna slap a cartoon over it?” Clint grumbles. He doesn’t like the idea of having to start a tattoo only to have Kate finish it. “Seriously. This might send me into early retirement.”

“What a shame,” Kate says. At the look on his face she points a chopstick at him seriously. “Quit your whining and tell me more about Natasha.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Clint says honestly. “What do you think is happening here?”

“You have a crush on her. A real life, big-boy crush.”

“So what?” Clint says. “I’m allowed to find people attractive.”

Kate squeals and spins a full circle on her chair, dislodging a single piece of chicken onto the floor. “I _knew_ it!”

“You just said it,” Clint sighs. “I know that you know it.”

“Whatever,” Kate snaps. She replaces her box of chicken with a spring roll, shoving half the thing into her mouth at once. “I’m excited for you.”

“You’re kinda acting like I’ve never been with a girl before,” he tells her.

“Well, you haven’t been with anyone since Bobbi,” Kate replies. “So it’s kinda the same thing.”

Sometimes Clint forgets about Bobbi and the two years they dated. Kate had only been an apprentice then, and he hadn’t had his own shop because he spent most of his time helping Bobbi with her jujutsu classes. It’s easy to forget, because the fighting at the end hadn’t been nice and Clint had really liked her, it just hadn’t been enough.

“Whatever,” Clint repeats her phrase from earlier. “Katie, I love you. But we gotta get this sketch right so I can have the stencil ready, and I really don’t wanna be here all night.”

Kate is annoyed but thankfully shuts up and starts drawing again, and it only takes them another hour to finally have something they both agree on. Clint can do the line work on his own, but the client will have to come back to have Kate finish the shading and colour work if he wants his tattoo to look any good.

He lets Kate out a little after 10pm, watching until she’s safe in her Uber and on her way home. He doesn’t have a lot to clean up but he likes things to be in their place, and he’s just grabbing his own things to leave when there’s a knock on the door.

Clint’s seen all manner of people in his store before, but a knock at this time of night still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He goes to the door anyway, not really that afraid of being robbed because he knows for a fact there’s no money on the premises, and is surprised to see Natasha there.

He swings the door open and frowns at her. “We gotta stop running into each other or I might think _you’re_ the murderer.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I work just over the road, Barton.”

“Sounds legit,” he says. “You wanna come in?”

“I thought you would be leaving, actually,” Natasha says softly. “Maybe we could walk together?”

Clint doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he’s not about to knock back an opportunity to spend time with Natasha. The Natasha he knows from the café is tough and unbothered, not quite the kind of person for evening walks. Clint can't get a read on her, and he’s been wrong about people before.

“Let me grab my jacket,” he says.

He ducks back into the store and snags his jacket off the chair, then checks his pockets for his phone and wallet because he has a bad habit of leaving them places at the most inconvenient times. He locks the door behind him and gives it an experimental shake until he’s sure it’s actually closed.

By the time he’s shrugged his jacket on Natasha is sucking on a cigarette, watching the road with narrowed eyes. She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside him without saying anything, which is okay with Clint for the first three blocks that they walk, but then it’s just _too_ silent and he’s never been one to shut up for long.

“What’re you doing out this late?” Clint asks.

Natasha shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Clint nods and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out to see a text from Kate letting him know she got home okay, and he replies with a simple thumbs up that he knows she’ll tease him about for weeks. Technology isn’t his friend.

“Somewhere you gotta be, Barton?” Natasha says.

Something in her tone makes Clint falter just slightly. “Uh, no. Just my colleague, Kate. She stayed back to help me finish a sketch.”

“Large iced mocha with four pumps of caramel and whipped cream,” Natasha recites. The look on his face makes her smile just a little. “She told me I had pretty eyes.”

Clint might actually kill Kate yet. “She’s like the annoying younger sister I never wanted, but she can create a mean tattoo.”

“When I first met you, I never would’ve pegged you for the kind of guy to give tattoos,” Natasha muses.

“You’re not really the type to be making coffees, either,” Clint retorts. “Not that I’m complaining, because _damn_ you make a good one.”

He can see her roll her eyes as they pass under a street lamp. “Tell Steve to give me a raise.”

Thing is, Clint _would_ tell Steve to give her a raise if she actually meant it. Natasha’s coffees are god-tier, the thing that makes getting up in the morning worth it. The only reason he doesn’t buy one every hour is because he doesn’t want to be _that_ guy, and also: money.

“I think I’m addicted,” he says seriously. “I don’t know what you do to it, but…”

“Crack cocaine.” Natasha is blunt and almost entirely believable. “My secret ingredient.”

Clint snorts. “That explains my erratic heartbeat and sudden paranoia.”

“What could you possibly be paranoid about?” Natasha says as they come to a stop in front of his apartment building. Clint doesn’t really remember steering them there.

“My dog is plotting against me,” he tells her, and only feels a little ridiculous. “He wants to kill my plants.”

“You kill your plants by not watering them, dummy,” Natasha says.

“You have to water them?” Clint feigns shock and is unsurprised when Natasha just rolls her eyes again. It’s the most conversation they’ve ever had and it’s nice. Natasha is fun and vibrant, almost an entirely different person from the one he speaks to during the day.

“I should go,” she ends up saying. “It’s late.”

He wants to ask why she couldn’t sleep but he’s not sure he has the right to yet. “If I told you that was a really nice walk.”

She smiles just a little, the kind of quiet smile Clint is used to seeing on her face now. There’s still something missing from her eyes and she had been smoking earlier, so he knows that maybe she’s not feeling great. He wonders what she looks like when she’s beaming.

“Good night, Barton,” she says softly.

“G’night Natasha,” he replies, and then she’s walking around the corner before he can blink and he can’t get her out of his mind for the rest of the night.

A month later Clint sits in his own chair, letting Kate do a little touch-up on the tattoos that cover his fingers and the back of his left hand. She’s slow and careful and it reminds him that he has made at least one good choice in his life, that if it weren’t for Kate he probably wouldn’t be able to keep the place afloat on his own.

“Got any wild Friday night plans, boss?” she asks.

Clint purses his lips and taps his foot as the needle passes over a particularly sensitive area of skin. Just because he does it for a living doesn’t mean he’s immune to the pain. “Gotta take Lucky to the vets.”

“You’re kidding,” Kate says. “What will it take for me to get you to come party with me?”

“A lot of money,” Clint deadpans. “Bills come first.”

“You’re so lame and adult-y. When did that happen? I hate it.”

Clint laughs at Kate’s whiny tone but if he’s honest he can’t remember when it happened either. Somewhere between winding up in foster care at nine and Barney abandoning him at fourteen, probably, though he doesn’t like to think about that period of time where he had to learn to be bigger and smarter than he was. His early twenties were fuelled by alcohol and casual theft but he still went home and paid the bills and went to work the next day.

He knows how to work hard to get what he wants. Somewhere along the way, having spontaneous fun got lost.

“Ever since my mum died,” he begins, free hand held to his chest in mock-pain.

Kate groans loudly, lifts the gun from his skin and smacks her forehead against the table. “You had to learn how to be a man. I get it.”

“You’d think you heard this all before,” Clint teases. Humour is an easy deflection, and Kate falls for it every time, even if she isn’t far from the truth.

“Your sob story does nothing for me,” she says, and resumes tattooing. “My heart is dead and cold.”

She finishes the Roman numerals across his fingers that stand for his mother’s birthdate. He admires her work for a second, then swaps hands and lets her examine the snake’s tail that winds around his right wrist and ends on the back of his hand. The rest of the snake coils up his arm, a half-sleeve of grey and moss green. It was Kate's first tattoo off her apprenticeship, and he’s never regretted it for a second.

“What would I do without you?” Clint says as she starts the machine up again.

“Die in a ditch,” Kate smirks. “Or never talk to Natasha. Basically the same difference.”

Clint huffs a laugh and leaves her to work in silence. Sometimes, Kate Bishop is too smart for her own good.

It takes fours hours to finish the line work and shading on the USS Enterprise that he started weeks ago, and by the end of it his body is aching. Clint is more than happy to let Kate deal with everything else from here on out, so he sneaks across the road for a well-deserved coffee break.

He searches for Natasha for a solid minute before he realises she just isn’t there. The coffee almost doesn’t seem worth it anymore, but he had had to skip lunch and doesn’t know if there’s anything edible in the house. The peach went off days ago and he still hasn’t thrown it out.

“The usual?” Steve asks.

“Yea, and one for Kate too thanks,” Clint answers. She’s going to owe him for having to carry that monstrosity back to the store.

“Busy day?” Steve says.

Clint shrugs, because the back piece has been his only client all day. His hands are sore and his neck tight and he just wants to sink into bed already. “It’s not so bad.”

Steve abandons the register to make Clint’s drinks himself, and Clint could almost fall over in relief. It’s not like the other baristas are _bad_ , but Steve and Natasha just know how to make good coffee and it’s a talent Clint doesn’t take for granted. He can't even remember what he did before the café opened, but it wouldn’t have been nice.

“Might come over and check out your portfolio,” Steve says. “I like art.”

Clint raises an eyebrow in surprise, but before he can speak Bucky beats him to it.

“You thinking of getting a tattoo Stevie?”

Steve’s ears turn red and he concentrates extra hard on printing Kate’s name on the side of her cup. “I like art.”

“Okay,” Bucky laughs. He sets a tray of wrapped sandwiches on the bench and starts putting them into the display fridge. “You could get the American flag on your ass.”

“Language!” Steve warns. He pushes Clint’s drinks across the counter and gives him a look that begs for pity. “See you around.”

Bucky is definitely Steve’s boyfriend, even if the two of them haven’t really realised it yet. Clint hasn’t had one of Bucky’s coffees before, and isn’t even sure if he makes them considering his left arm has only recently been fitted with a new prosthetic. Clint doesn’t know what he would do if he lost an arm, but if he had someone like Steve around it probably wouldn’t be so bad.

Kate all but launches herself at him when he walks in the door. “I deserve this.”

“I deserve it more,” Clint smarts. He points at her drink accusingly. “That’s not even real coffee.”

Kate is already swinging around on her chair, one hand pointing down the hall towards his office. “You have a visitor.”

Clint frowns and heads back to the office. He doesn’t have a single clue who would be there, since Kate is the only one technically allowed in there and she knows better than to let Barney step foot in the front door. His stomach roils familiarly as he pushes the door open.

Tony Stark says, “I want a tattoo.”

Clint blinks. Tony Stark is a billionaire, the guy on TV and the front page of magazines. He doesn’t just walk into a dingy old tattoo store, even if Clint is the highest rated tattooist on Yelp. He could go anywhere in the world and see people much more talented. He’s _Tony freaking Stark_.

“You want a tattoo,” Clint says.

“Uh huh,” Tony says. He stands and walks around Clint's desk, sliding a piece of paper over the wood as he goes. “Specifically this, and preferably before Pepper finds out I’m here.”

Clint takes the paper and squints at the lines and dots. “What is it?”

“The atomic structure of vibranium,” Tony says dismissively. His suit is probably worth more than Clint’s entire apartment. It’s probably worth more than Kate’s trust fund, and she’s _rich_ rich.

“Pepper?” Clint repeats dumbly. He sips his coffee – good, but not the _best_ – and considers the man in front of him. “How did you get back here?”

“Your receptionist let me,” Tony answers. “She doesn’t do a very good job.”

“I’m not a receptionist, asshole,” Kate says from the doorway. Clint doesn’t know whether he wants to shake her or high-five her. She raises an eyebrow, challenging him to do either.

“Can you come back tomorrow?” Clint hears himself asking. His body doesn’t want to stay awake for much longer, even for Tony Stark. “I’m about to head off.”

To his surprise, Tony simply nods. “I would consider getting a new receptionist.”

“Not a receptionist,” Kate snaps as the man brushes past her. She leans against the wall and slurps loudly at her drink, almost blocking the sound of the front door closing behind Stark. “Don’t give me that look.”

Clint stares at her. “You called Tony Stark an asshole. To his face.”

“I think he likes it,” Kate comments. She trails after him into the main storefront, dragging her feet like a child. “Can I go home too?”

“You’ve got a 3:30,” he tells her absently. He stares into the café through his window, watching Bucky and Steve stack cups into two tall towers. The whole day feels like some kind of weird fever dream. “Did I tell you I bought those new plants?”

Kate stands beside him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Natasha wasn’t working, was she? There were no sprinkles on my drink.”

Clint shrugs. “Don’t think so.”

“You miss her,” Kate singsongs. “You’re so into her.”

Clint doesn’t answer, too tired to really care about her teasing. People have days off all the time, and it would be weird if he were overly concerned about Natasha. She’s a grown woman and he barely knows her and it’s not a big deal. Sure, he would’ve liked a perfect coffee after his marathon session, but. She doesn’t exist just to make him drinks.

“I’m off,” Clint says. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“Can't make any promises, boss,” Kate smirks, and Clint can't be sure that it’s real, but he swears he sees her flip him the bird as he leaves.

“She’s not here,” Bucky says, giving Clint the kind of look that makes him realise he’s not as subtle as he thought he was being.

“What?” he says anyway, playing dumb. If it works for Lucky, it can work for him too.

“Nat’s not here,” Bucky elaborates. “She’ll probably be back next week.”

Thing is, Bucky had said that last week too, and Natasha still hasn’t shown up. No one else seems to be bothered by it so Clint just pretends he knows exactly what is going on, even if it’s now been two weeks of second-best coffee that’s starting to taste like regular coffee.

“S’all good,” Clint says. He accepts his cup, his name written in block letters on the side instead of Natasha’s cursive. “Steve does alright.”

Steve shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Clint heads back over into his own store to find Tony Stark, shirtless in the storefront, and he can't help but be a little annoyed; Natasha wasn’t the only one who had disappeared, and Clint’s been keeping a few bookings open a day in case the elusive playboy finally decided to grace them with his presence.

Kate pops her bubble-gum. “I told him to keep it on.”

Tony shrugs and gestures around the room. “For my fans, obviously.”

There’s no one else in the store, partly because Clint had flipped the closed sign on for lunch and shut the blinds. He sighs and chugs half his coffee, then leads Tony over to the chair so he can show him the sketch.

“That’s good,” he says without really glancing at it.

“It’s gonna be on you forever,” Clint warns. “You sure you don’t wanna look?”

“I can afford the laser removal,” Tony says, and Clint has to remind himself that punching billionaires isn’t in his best interest. “Ink me, baby.”

Kate groans audibly and takes her own sketchbook back into the office, letting the door swing shut behind her. Clint wishes more than anything that he could trade places with her, but this is also the kind of once in a lifetime opportunity that he can’t really pass up.

“Don’t move,” Clint says out of habit. “You have any other tattoos?”

“Nope,” Tony says cockily. “But how much can it really hurt anyway?”

Clint doesn’t justify that question with a response. He knows too well that everyone’s bodies react differently to pain, and tattooing is no exception. He’s had clients like Claudia squirm a little, and then guys triple the size of Steve fully sob on his chair. Tony Stark could still go either way.

He presses the stencil against Tony’s skin and makes sure he’s happy with the placement before he applies it. He pours the ink into his ink caps and moves on to taking the needles out of their sterile pouches. The actions are calming, almost second nature after years of tattooing. Clint makes sure everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be before he turns the machine on.

Tattooing makes him forget about everything else. He can lose himself in the repetitiveness of the lines and circles for hours, only realising the ache of his own body long after he finishes. Kate calls him a perfectionist and Bobbi used to curse him every time he spent extra time on his pieces but it _had_ to be perfect; there’s no room for error or else that person has to live with it forever, and Clint can't quite deal with the idea of that.

The tattoo takes just less than an hour, and it’s so good that it actually shuts Stark up for a solid minute. Clint admires his work and snaps a photo for Instagram, then rushes through after care before his next client is due to arrive. And then Tony hands him a stack of bills that he can barely close his fist around and –

“This is way too much,” Clint says quickly. He can't even begin to count it. It also feels incredibly illegal even though he knows that it isn’t.

“If your receptionist wants a new job, tell her to call by Stark Industries,” Tony says, shrugging his shirt back on. “You’re a pretty good artist. Hey, you know where to get a decent coffee around here?”

Clint is still dumbfounded, but he manages to point out through the window at the café. Tony puts his sunglasses on, gives him a thumbs up and is out the door before Clint can even question the money again. He blows out a breath and is shoving it in the cash box when Kate finally pokes her head out from the office, eyes wide in shock.

“Drinks on me?”

They’re at the bar and Clint is a few beers deep when Kate brings over a woman with blonde hair and a face that’s lit with laughter. She’s attractive, and Clint's buzzed enough that he lets Kate pretend she’s successfully set him up for a few minutes, watching her gesture to him in amusement.

“Carol, this is Clint,” she says. She has a pink drink in hand, the kind that makes Clint’s head feel fuzzy. “He’s pretty great.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carol says, and shakes his hand. Clint is a little slow on the uptake tonight but he realises the exact moment she loosens her grip. “I’m gay, actually.”

Clint laughs at Kate’s pout. “Oh, _c’mon_.”

“I have a wife,” Carol continues, and points to a woman across the bar. “I appreciate the thought though.”

“Congratulations,” Clint says, mainly for the sake of saying something. Carol grins and weaves her way back towards the bar, and Kate slumps onto the stool beside him, toying with the straw of her crazy looking cocktail.

“I’m helping you get over Natasha,” she half-shouts. “I’m your wing-woman.”

“I don’t need a wing-woman,” Clint shouts back. He’s still watching Carol and her wife when he sees a flash of red hair at the bar. “Wait. Am I hallucinating?”

Kate squints where he points but catches her reflection in a mirror before she can help him figure out if he really _is_ seeing Natasha on the other side of the room. “Fuck, look at my face. Why didn’t you tell me it was glowing already?”

“Kate, I gotta go over there,” Clint tells her. “You know anyone else here?”

“Yea, I guess,” Kate moans. Her eyes sweep over the crowd and her face lights up when she spots someone she knows. “Oh my God, it’s Darcy. I could set you up with Darcy!”

Clint pushes her towards her friend and abandons his beer in favour of getting to the end of the bar. It’s crowded for a Thursday night and he originally hadn’t expected to be out so late, but Kate had been having too much fun for him to call it a night. His first appointment isn’t until noon tomorrow anyway, so he’ll at least have time to feel sorry for himself in the morning.

Natasha is sitting on her own, wearing a pale pink leotard and drinking something that looks decidedly stronger than Clint’s beers. The outfit looks out of place, but it suits her in a way that he can't quite understand. Her hair is pinned in a tight bun on top of her head. When he comes up behind her he notices for the first time the stark black line that runs from her hairline straight down her neck, a delicate spider hanging from the end of it between her shoulder blades.

“Thought I was gonna have to find a new coffee shop,” Clint says. He slides onto the stool next to her and gestures for the bartender to bring another beer. “If I told you that Steve just isn’t that good.”

Natasha takes a sip of her drink, then puts it down and stares into the amber liquid. Clint gets the feeling that something is wrong but his brain can't help him work out what. There’s a number pinned to the side of her leotard, her legs covered by shimmering white tights.

“I need a tattoo,” Natasha says, her voice somehow thicker and raspier. She looks at him then but there’s none of the usual cheek in her eyes. “Can you do it?”

“I like the one on your back,” Clint says. “Didn’t know you had it. I can probably squeeze you in next week.”

Natasha’s other tattoo, the one he did know about, is a tiny four-leaf clover on the inside of her fourth finger. He sees it every time she passes him a coffee. It’s cute, though not the best work Clint’s ever come across. The spider on her back, on the other hand. He would love to meet whoever did that.

“No,” Natasha says. “I mean can you do it now.”

Clint blinks at her. She’s slurring a little, though he imagines she’s a lot drunker than she looks. He would love to give her a tattoo right now, but his vision can't exactly be trusted. Plus, there are rules about blood alcohol levels and adding ink to the mix, and he’s not in the mood to break them.

“I’m a little too drunk for that,” Clint laughs. “Reckon you might be too.”

Natasha’s eyes flash. “I want it _now_.”

“I can't do it, though,” Clint says again, still smiling even though something feels very, very off. “I’d love to, but you know. It might suck, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Stupid,” Natasha snaps. She downs the rest of her drink and slaps a handful of bills onto the bar top. “I thought you would have bigger balls.”

Clint frowns. “My balls _are_ big!”

It’s probably not the most important thing to be worried about, but he’s drunk and she’s being mean and he doesn’t really know why. Natasha only hates making coffees for everyone else. He thought she actually liked talking to him.

“Do the fucking tattoo then,” she hisses in his face. He can smell the vodka on her breath, and something acrid like sweat.

“No,” Clint says. “I’m not doing it tonight.”

“Fuck you,” Natasha snarls.

He watches her push away and head for the door, unsteady on her feet even though her shoes are flat and don’t even really look like shoes. Clint doesn’t dwell on the thought for long before he’s following her. He checks Kate is still with her friend as he pushes through the crowd, then makes sure his phone and wallet aren’t somewhere stupid and are still in his pockets.

He finds Natasha on the sidewalk, fingers shaking around a cigarette and lighter. He’s too angry to think of helping her. He’s too angry to do anything other than yell.

“You don’t disappear for over two weeks and then get to come back making fucking demands Natasha, that’s not how this works.”

“How what works?” She gives up on the cigarette and rounds on him. “What do you think is going on here?”

“ _This_ is nothing,” Clint snaps, gesturing between the two of them. “You make my coffee when you’re working, and I’ll give you a tattoo when I’m working and _sober_. You don’t get special fucking treatment just because –”

He lets the sentence hang, not quite ready to finish it. Natasha is breathing like she just ran a race and this wasn’t the kind of night Clint had in mind when Tony Stark over-tipped him. He wants to take the words all back, just go inside and find Kate and forget any of it ever happened.

“I’m so angry,” Natasha says, voice cracking. “I can't even… I want a fucking tattoo and I want to dance and if I hadn’t broken my –”

She trails off and swipes at her eyes, then narrows them into a glare. Clint wants to glare back but some of the fight has left him, even if he’s still a little hurt. He reminds himself that she’s drunk to see if it makes a difference.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says eventually. “I don’t give a shit about your tattoos.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says.

They stare at each other for longer than necessary, and then Natasha spins on her heel and stalks off down the road. He almost wants to go after her, if only to make sure she actually gets home safe. He glances at the bar and sees Kate by the window, giving him a thumbs down.

At least it’s not the most embarrassing thing she’s ever seen him do. He goes back inside to find her. Maybe she can introduce him to Darcy after all.

“You’re moping,” Kate says. It’s been half a week since the night at the bar and Clint hasn’t been to the café once. “Before you say you’re not, I can tell. Nothing gets past me.”

Clint looks up from where he’s been doodling in the margin of their appointment book. “Fine, maybe I am moping. I’m entitled to it.”

“She was a bit mean,” Kate says, sipping on her iced mocha. “I didn’t say anything to her when she made the drinks.”

There’s a large coffee on the desk in front of him. Clint can see the beginning of Natasha’s cursive but can't quite read what she’s written on the side of the cup. He feels a little bad for the way he reacted, but he _was_ drunk and she _was_ mean. He’ll get over it soon, probably.

“She gave you sprinkles,” Clint muses.

Kate nods forlornly. “Yep. She knows the way to my heart.”

Clint laughs a little, pushing himself away from the desk to stretch his arms above his head. It’s only barely mid-morning and it’s going to be a slow day. Kate has the shading on the USS Enterprise to keep her busy for a few hours, but Clint’s first appointment isn’t until after lunch and he doesn’t really have anything to do until then.

“I have so many friends I can introduce you to anyway,” Kate says. She grabs the appointment book and surveys his handiwork. “Hey, this is really cool.”

She points at the spider that Clint drew halfway down the page. He hadn’t really realised he had been drawing it until it was almost finished, and it doesn’t look nearly as good as the one on Natasha’s back. He can't get it out of his mind. He also can't get _her_ out of his mind.

“Just something I saw,” he says dismissively. “Go get your shit together before Greg gets here.”

“Greg,” Kate shudders. “I forgot. This thing will kill me, mark my words.”

“Thanks for this,” Clint says as he picks up the coffee. It’s exactly right, if not better than usual. Steve could never achieve this kind of roast.

Kate salutes and heads over to her station. Clint spins the cup around to see that Natasha has written _Sorry_ in thick black Sharpie, and has included what he thinks is her phone number. He stares at it for a long time, even if he already knew he was going to forgive her. Then he grabs his jacket and walks out the door, straight across the road to the café.

Natasha actually looks surprised to see him waiting in line. When she turns to make a drink he can just make out the thin line that emerges from her hairline and disappears beneath her uniform. She stays by the espresso machine until he’s the next one in line, then pushes her way back to the registers and glares her way through the customer before him until suddenly he’s standing in front of her.

“You look like shit,” he says, giving her an once-over. Her bun is messier than usual, her eyes exhausted and her skin ghostly white.

She smiles tightly. “Binge drinking to the early hours of the morning will do that to you. Also working overtime.”

Clint doesn’t really know what he wanted to say to her. Between leaving his store and walking across the road he hadn’t come up with much. Maybe she didn’t want him to come anyway, and that was why she had left the number.

“Was there something wrong with the coffee?” she asks, and he realises he’s still holding it tightly in his hand.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he says quickly. “It’s perfect. Raise-worthy, actually.”

Steve shakes his head as he passes behind Natasha, and she smiles a little more softly now. Bucky appears from the opposite direction, one sleeve hanging loosely from his shoulder. Clint’s never seen him without a prosthetic before.

“Wanna take your break, Nat?” Bucky says. “You look like you might pass out.”

Natasha nods and unties her apron from around her neck, giving Clint a look he can't quite read. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He wasn’t going to anyway, but he moves to stand by the door so he’s not holding up the line anymore. Bucky grins and Clint vaguely wonders if he was really letting Natasha go so that she could talk to him and sort out what happened last Thursday.

Natasha comes back with a jacket slung over her arm, and the two of them leave without saying anything. They walk in silence for a block and it’s weird. Clint wants to go back to the way it was before. Before they both said stupid things and acted like children.

“I don’t think your tattoos are shit at all,” Natasha says eventually. She shrugs her shoulders and glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “If I told you that I’m a bitch who just needed someone to be angry with.”

“If I told you that you _were_ a bitch,” Clint says.

Natasha laughs gruffly and nods. “I deserve that.”

“We were both drunk,” Clint says. “And it was stupid, really.”

“Yea, but it was wrong of me to put that on you,” Natasha says softly. “I’m sorry that I did it.”

Clint hasn’t really had many people apologise to him in his life, so he isn’t really sure how to react. He has a mouthful of coffee and watches as two cabs almost collide at the traffic lights. It’s a crisp day, the odd time between winter and spring.

“It’s okay,” he manages. “Really.”

Natasha nods and folds her arms over her chest. Clint _is_ over it, and is glad that they’ve cleared the air. If they hadn’t then Clint doesn’t know what he would have done. Finding a new café would be a tough pill to swallow.

“What tattoo were you thinking of?” he asks. “I mean it when I said I can squeeze you in next week.”

“It’s a continuous line in the shape of a ballerina,” Natasha admits. “Well, a half-formed ballerina.”

Clint remembers the leotard and tight bun Natasha had been wearing on Thursday night and everything suddenly clicks into place. “You’re a dancer.”

“I was,” Natasha says bitterly. She pulls out a cigarette to hold between two fingers but doesn’t light it. “I injured myself a couple of years ago. Last week was kind of like my last chance to audition.”

“I’m gonna guess it didn’t really go the way you hoped,” Clint says carefully. He glances at her and sees the muscles in her neck tense as she clenches her jaw. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s fine,” Natasha assures. “I’m going to have to get over it someday.”

“Well, I’ll check my appointments and send you a message,” Clint says, tapping the side of his coffee cup where she wrote her number. “If you still want me to, I’ll do the tatt.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says sincerely. They stop walking and face each other, and Clint almost wonders if something else is supposed to happen now. He could kiss her. He _wants_ to kiss her.

“I’m still on the clock,” Natasha says. She takes a step back and finally lights the cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke away from him. “Better get back before they fire me.”

“I’d have to protest,” Clint teases. “I’ll chain myself to the coffee machine.”

Natasha laughs and everything goes back to normal. Clint can't stop smiling for the whole walk back.

Over the weekend Clint’s plants die, so he walks Lucky back to the florists to pick out some more. He goes for the same two he picked last time, mainly because they had been doing well for most of the time he had them and hadn’t immediately perished. Besides, he likes the look of the bird’s nest fern.

He checks out and realises that there is absolutely no way he can walk his dog and carry the plants. Lucky wags his tail, stupidly oblivious to Clint’s sudden dilemma, and he’s just considering calling Kate to come save him when Natasha rounds the corner.

She’s wearing gym tights and a crop top and holding a green smoothie, and it’s so unlike what he knows of her that he momentarily can't speak. He also can't stop looking at the smooth skin of her lower back, but that’s his business.

“Got your hands full Barton?” she asks with a smirk.

“I didn’t think this through,” he groans. “I have a huge favour to ask.”

“Give me the dog,” Natasha says, and Clint gratefully hands over Lucky’s leash to her. “What’s its name?”

“Lucky,” Clint tells her. He hoists his other plant under his arm and they fall into step together. “Why are we always bumping into each other?”

Natasha gasps. “Are you stalking me?”

“Hey, I was at the florists first,” Clint defends. “Plus, we apparently live within vicinity of each other, so.”

“I told you I live around the corner,” Natasha says. “It’s a nice neighbourhood.”

“You’re saving my life,” he says.

“I’m always saving your life,” Natasha retorts, rolling her eyes. “Your dog is well-behaved.”

“He was s’posed to be a guide dog but he failed.” Clint looks pointedly at Lucky, who wags his tail like he knows exactly what they’re talking about. “He just loves chasing cats.”

“I have a cat,” Natasha tells him. “Liho. She was a stray until she took over my apartment.”

Clint laughs as they round the corner to his apartment block. He isn’t sure if he should invite Natasha up, since Lucky will be fine to ride the elevator without Clint having to hold his lead, but she saves him the trouble by wrapping it around his wrist.

“Thanks,” Clint says. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Natasha says softly. “Make sure you put your fern in a well-draining pot. Water from around the edges instead of the middle, or too much water can collect and cause blight.”

Clint blinks at her. “You’re like a super-hero. I need you to give me a crash course on plants.”

“Well you know where to find me,” Natasha smiles, and gives him a little wave. “See you around, Barton.”

“Bye Nat,” he calls, testing the nickname on his tongue. It widens her smile just enough to make his knees weak.

Clint spends the next month with an influx of customers, mostly because Tony Stark finally decides to debut his tattoo in the middle of a preliminary hearing. He ends up booked out until late in the year and he really can't believe it’s all because of one guy. They even have a TV crew come for an interview, but Clint leaves that to Kate to deal with.

He manages to book Natasha in before the schedule gets crazy, but they end up changing it to after hours so she doesn’t have to take off work. They order pizza and Clint tattoos the half-formed ballerina onto her side; the hand of the dancer brushes the side of Natasha’s breast and the foot comes to a point just above her hipbone. One continuous line, as though she’s really moving.

It’s delicate and somehow deadly. Clint has never seen black ink look so good on skin before, but Natasha is creamy and soft even where her ribs jut out. They talk about everything except her dancing and whatever accident forced her to quit and it makes Clint want more. More conversation and more of his hands on her sides, on her hip, fingers ghosting beneath her breast. He notices the hitch of her breath when he touches her there, but she _had_ wanted the hand to reach as far as he could realistically imagine it and he’s not doing it on purpose, even if he wishes he were.

Sometimes they’re quiet, and Clint likes that too. He likes that they can fall easily in and out of speech, that there’s no uncomfortable silence between them. He offers her bites of pizza as he works and when he’s done he snaps the compulsory Instagram picture, plus an extra one of the spider because he really will never get over the intricacies of it.

Natasha doesn’t leave until nearly midnight. Clint doesn’t walk back with her, even if he wants to. He spends another hour cleaning his station, then ends up falling asleep in the office surrounded by sketches, which is how Kate finds him the next morning. She shakes her head and hands him a large coffee, and Natasha’s written _Thanks Big Balls_ on the side. Kate gives him a knowing look.

Clint flips her the bird for the sake of it, but inside he’s melting.

“I need to ask a favour.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. His sandwich of choice today is chicken and avocado, since he’s trying to incorporate vegetables into his diet for once. Natasha is leaning against the wall making a great show out of peeling a banana. He kind of thinks it might be part of some grand scheme to get him to say yes to whatever she wants, but. It’s also Natasha, so he has no idea.

“What is it?” Clint asks around his mouthful.

“I’m going to visit my mama,” she says carefully. “Next weekend.”

“So you’re asking?” Clint pushes. The sandwich is good, even with the avocado. If the alley didn’t stink of piss he could almost enjoy it.

“Come with me,” Natasha says. She finishes peeling the banana and takes a slow, deliberate bite. “I need the support.”

Clint swallows. “For a visit with your mother?”

“You don’t know what she’s like,” Natasha mutters. “She thinks I have a boyfriend anyway.”

Clint chokes even though there’s nothing in his mouth. This isn’t the kind of favour he had expected her to ask of him. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to pretend to be her boyfriend when he has a real-life crush on her already. It all feels like too much for him to deal with.

“I can't do it,” he manages eventually.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to pretend to be my boyfriend, Barton. She just doesn’t listen to me.”

It makes Clint feel a little better to hear that, but he’s still not sure he can do it. Spending a weekend with Natasha is exactly what he wants. Spending a weekend with Natasha and her mother, whom she apparently can't visit on her own? Recipe for disaster.

Natasha bats her eyelashes. Clint’s never seen dirtier tactics in his life. “C’mon Barton. Just this one little favour?”

Which is how Clint finds himself in Brighton Beach the following Friday. Natasha has her hair pulled back and a smirk on her face that he finds equal parts annoying and cute. The whole thing is annoying, mostly because Kate has been teasing him relentlessly ever since she found out that meeting Natasha’s mother was the reason he finally took some time off.

Still, he’s never actually been to Brighton Beach, and Natasha’s already dragged him to her favourite Russian store so she could buy pryaniki to give to her mother. It’s a nice enough area to spend a weekend in, anyway, and he is looking forward to having a break. Kate’s got Lucky and everything is under control. He tells himself it’ll be fine.

Galina Romanova looks a little like Natasha, though it’s mainly because of their hair that Clint can pick them as mother and daughter. Her face is lined but she’s still younger than Clint would have imagined. There’s none of the typical hugging and smiling, just a bunch of Russian that makes Natasha roll her eyes and push him inside.

“He is handsome boy,” Mrs Romanova says when they’re settled behind plates of blini.

“He’s not my boyfriend, mama,” Natasha says. She’s got one blin and no toppings but Mrs Romanova has just about drowned his plate in sour cream. “He’s just my friend.”

Mrs Romanova doesn’t look convinced. “How you meet my daughter?”

“She makes my coffee,” Clint says easily. The look on her face makes his stomach drop. “She actually makes the best coffee in all of New York.”

“How is audition?” Mrs Romanova asks. She puts her hands on her hips and scowls and Clint senses that shit is about to hit the fan real bad. He stuffs his face and watches cautiously.

Natasha just rolls her eyes again. “It went as well as can be expected.”

“Natalia,” Mrs Romanova warns. “You are not clever.”

“I didn’t get in, mama,” Natasha finally snaps. “What do you expect?”

There’s a whole lot of yelling in Russian after that, interspersed with some English words as though they almost think Clint’s a part of it. He’s not, and he just keeps loading his plate up with blini to avoid the fact that it almost feels like the walls are shaking from the firmness of Mrs Romanova’s voice. Maybe he can kind of see why Natasha would want support. He’s not sure it’s making a difference.

“ _Tvoy otets bylo by razocharovan_ ” Mrs Romanov hisses.

“Papa wouldn’t care!” Natasha cries. “Papa never cared. He wanted me to be happy, mama. _Prosto schastliva_.”

It’s only then that Clint realises Natasha’s father is dead and that he really doesn’t know anything about her at all. A heavy silence falls over the kitchen and even though he has no idea what the argument was really about, Clint can see that it’s taken a toll on Natasha. Her eyes are sad. She hasn’t touched her blin.

“How long do you know Natalia?” Mrs Romanova eventually says to him.

Natasha stands and stalks out of the room. Mrs Romanova takes her plate straight to the trash and throws it away, cutlery and all. There’s no sadness on _her_ face, just something like anger and disappointment. Clint can barely get his tongue to form a thank you before he’s heading down the hall with his bag in search of his friend.

She’s standing by her bedroom window, cracked just enough to let a thin stream of smoke out. Her room is childlike and nothing like he would have imagined it, all pink frills and one big mirror where there should have been a normal wall. There’s medals and trophies and pictures of a much younger Natasha in front of a bar, one of her wearing a tutu, another of her flying impossibly high through the air.

“My mama’s shrine,” Natasha scoffs. “I don’t apologise for her behaviour anymore.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. There’s only one bed, obviously, but from what he can tell the house is too small to have any more than two bedrooms. “You okay?”

She lifts one shoulder delicately, then stamps the cigarette out on the windowsill. “I failed her idea of the perfect daughter. Neither of us can get over it.”

She slumps down onto the bed beside him and stretches out long, like a cat. Clint sits a little awkwardly until it becomes clear that she isn’t going to move, so he just throws caution to the wind and lies right beside her. There are posters stuck to the roof, images of different ballet positions.

“It’s a lot of pressure to put on a kid,” he says quietly.

“We moved from Russia when I was seven but they never told me why,” Natasha says softly. “I think mama always hated my papa for that. I could be in the Bolshoi now. Or maybe I would never have fallen.”

“How did he die?” Clint asks. He thinks it’s the right thing to do, because he’s learnt that she really doesn’t like talking about whatever accident ruined her career. Plus, he can at least relate to the whole dead parent thing.

“He was shot,” Natasha says. “On the way home from work. I was thirteen.”

“Mine were in a car accident,” Clint tells her. “My dad was drunk and driving. My mum was gonna leave him. He used to beat us up sometimes. So my brother and I went to foster care, then Barney left me on my own.”

Natasha knocks her shoulder against his. “You’ve done alright for yourself.”

“If I told you it was all a fluke,” Clint says.

“If I told you that it was all _you_ ,” Natasha insists.

They lie side-by-side in silence for a while. Clint feels heavy and sluggish after everything he ate and could almost just fall asleep right there. There is a pair of tiny ballet shoes framed on the wall, and he realises that Natasha has probably been dancing ever since she could walk. If he squints he can see a photo of a tiny red-haired toddler on the dresser, her arms above her head and her feet turned out.

“C’mon,” Natasha says eventually, standing in one fluid motion. “I didn’t drag you all the way here just to listen to mama yell at me.”

Clint gets up with a lot less finesse. “Here I was thinking you only wanted to get me fat on Russian food.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” Natasha snarks, a small smile on her face. “We have all weekend, remember?”

Clint spends Friday night at a Russian restaurant with Natasha, watching dancers and eating all kinds of food he has no hope of pronouncing. She takes him back to her favourite store and they buy an abundance of weird foreign snacks, then sneak back into the house like a couple of teenagers. It’s at that moment that Clint remembers the bed situation.

“What?” Natasha asks, coming back from the bathroom wearing her pyjamas. There’s a glint in her eye that he can't ignore. “Got a problem, Barton?”

He’s not intimidated by her confidence. “Want me to take the couch?”

“We’re adults.” Natasha rolls her eyes and sits primly on the bed. “You can take the other side of the bed, or the floor if you’re that worried about your virtue.”

“Ha ha,” Clint huffs. He takes his backpack with him to the bathroom, quickly changes into his own pyjamas, and by the time he comes back Natasha is opening a box of chocolates and a mini bottle of vodka.

“Late night snack?” she offers.

They end up falling asleep amidst chocolates on top of Natasha’s bed, and Clint’s too tipsy and full to really care about it, even when she rolls into him and her hair falls over his face.

When he wakes up on Saturday morning Natasha is nowhere to be seen. He heads out to the kitchen and Mrs Romanova makes a pot of coffee, not quite as good as the stuff back home but enough to wake him up.

“How long do you know Natalia?” she repeats her question from the previous day.

Clint honestly doesn’t remember, so he just shrugs. “Few months, I guess.”

Mrs Romanova regards him carefully. He can see where Natasha gets her fierceness from, even if she doesn’t want to admit she's anything like her mother. There’s a lot of stuff in the kitchen that Clint’s never seen before. He has no idea what anything says.

“She is good dancer,” Mrs Romanova muses. She’s staring out of the kitchen window so she doesn’t see Clint’s eye roll. “But then is accident, and she break – _yeye pozvonochnik_ – and she is angry.”

He puts two and two together and figures that Natasha probably broke a leg. He doesn’t understand the Russian but what else could she hurt that would end a career? It’s none of his business really, even though he’s curious and technically Mrs Romanova brought it up anyway, so there’s no harm in asking.

“How did it happen?”

Mrs Romanova’s eyebrows knit together and she shakes her head. “She fall. Papa would not believe if he saw. He say I give her my fire.” She touches her hair, the colour only slightly less vibrant than Natasha’s. “Is why we argue.”

“Is that the only reason why, mama?” Natasha asks from the doorway.

“Natalia is stubborn,” Mrs Romanova says sharply.

“C’mon, Clint,” Natasha says, ignoring her mother in favour of pulling Clint up from the table. “There’s somewhere I want to go.”

She ends up taking him to the beach and they spend a few hours in the little sun that peaks through the clouds. It gives Clint the chance to admire his handiwork on Natasha’s side, and she finally gets to see the piece that takes up most of his back and is usually hidden under his shirts.

She spends a lot of time tracing her finger over the lines, then smoothing her small hand over his skin. It sends goosebumps all the way down to his toes. It’s a phoenix, with spread wings that stretch across his shoulders and end at his elbows. There’s not much meaning to it, but there doesn’t always have to be. Natasha gives him a look that tells him more than any tattoo will.

In the afternoon they get ice creams even though it’s not that hot out, and Mrs Romanova makes kotleti for dinner with about twenty different side dishes. Clint stuffs himself again, phones Kate and goes to bed early, exhausted and happy and thinking about the look on Natasha’s face when she saw him on the beach, because he knows he was looking at her the same way.

“She’s definitely being nicer because you’re here, so thank you,” Natasha says. They’re walking down the boardwalk, Natasha in a big coat and beanie because she apparently hates the cold. It’s not that bad out, and Clint appreciates the fresh air. Lucky would love it here.

“You’re very welcome, but you do owe me one,” Clint teases.

Natasha laughs. “How’s a week of free coffee?”

“You sure know the way to my heart, woman,” he gushes. “Almost makes up for the whole sleeping-in-your-creepy-childhood-room situation.”

“She’s living in a dream,” Natasha groans. “I’m never going to dance again, as hard as it is to admit.”

“Did you always wanna be a ballerina?” he asks her.

She shrugs. “Basically. Mama wanted it too, but papa didn’t care. He just wanted me to be happy.”

“I wanted to be in the circus,” Clint admits. “Or maybe the police. But then I found out I can draw and a tattoo gun is ten times less scary, so.”

“You’re so tough,” Natasha jokes, then dodges out of the way as he goes to shove her playfully. “The circus is a sure fire way to get into a woman’s pants.”

Suddenly everything stops, and it’s potentially the cheesiest moment of Clint’s entire life. Natasha’s face is frozen in a smile, but her eyes are serious and dark, and it makes something jolt under his skin. The ball is in his court, he can feel her waiting for him to do anything other than keep staring at her.

“If I told you that I kinda _do_ wanna get into your pants,” he settles on, and it’s not the smoothest thing he could have come up with, but it makes Natasha beam, and she looks beautiful.

“If I told you that I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

He doesn’t remember how they make it back to her mother’s house: all he remembers is finally kissing Natasha, her lips soft and full, her breath hot on his face and her hands all over his chest. They stumble down the hall and into her room, collapsing in a heap of limbs on the bed, Natasha’s giant coat already on the floor and her pants halfway gone.

“Oh my God, your mother is in the next room,” Clint groans. Natasha kisses him like her life depends on it and he feels his brain momentarily short-circuit.

“Mama visits the Kuznetsov’s on Sunday,” Natasha murmurs. “She won’t be home for hours.”

It’s exactly what Clint wants to hear. He helps Natasha out of the rest of her clothes and runs his hands over her creamy skin, taking the time to memorise every inch of her. She impatiently undoes his belt, sucking at his bottom lip filthily, grinding her hips down onto his lap. They become a tangle of body parts, breaths and moans that only grow louder when Clint slips his hand between them and circles Natasha’s clit, and the way she reacts sends a shot of electricity straight through Clint’s body.

“More,” she sighs, head dropping onto his shoulder in pleasure. He gives her what she wants, only teasing a little because he can't help himself, but her breathy whines make him want to draw it out more.

She finds his cock and strokes it slowly, and he forgets how to work his own body for a second. Natasha’s hands are small, he knows that from all the times he’s watched her make him a coffee, but she knows exactly how to use them to make his knees weak. She pumps him a little faster, twisting her wrist just slightly, just enough to have him moaning against her chest.

It takes another minute before he has the good sense to keep moving his own fingers, and Natasha grinds herself down on his hand until he feels her come apart with a cry. He kisses her again roughly, dizzy from the taste of her, traces his fingers along the tattoo he left on her side and feels the muscles jumping as he goes. This time he touches her breast and means it, thumbs brushing across her nipples until she’s arching into his hand.

“Condoms are in the drawer,” she breathes in his ear, and it doesn’t really surprise him that she would have some in her childhood bedroom. He rifles blindly through the drawer, feeling everything from more medals to tiny little dolls, until he finally finds one and yanks it out victoriously.

Natasha laughs and takes it from him, rolling it down his cock and then guiding him into her. Her moan reverberates deep in his chest, and they move together perfectly, the two of them becoming one, and it’s the best sex Clint’s ever had, even if it is in her weird shrine-like bedroom. None of it even matters; all he cares about is her, the hot feeling of her around him, the way she kisses him and cries out for him, the way she knows exactly how to move after she comes to make him follow straight after her. She’s beaming, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen, and he swears he falls in love with her on the spot.

It’s scary and beautiful and brilliant. He doesn’t want the weekend to ever end.

“Will you come watch me dance in New York?” Natasha asks later.

She's lying beside him, head nestled on his shoulder, legs tangled together and one arm thrown over his stomach. She traces the tattoo on his ribs, the scrip that says _whatever it takes_. He likes to pretend that Barney didn’t leave a mark.

“Sure,” Clint says. He has no idea what time it is, just that Mrs Romanova isn’t back yet and the moon is full out the window. Natasha is warm and soft and he never wants to stop touching her. “Special occasion?”

“No,” she says softly. “I just practise on the weekends.”

The unspoken _in case_ hangs in the air between them. Clint presses a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her vanilla shampoo and smoke. Everything is quiet except for their soft breaths. He doesn’t want to go back to New York.

“Does your mother know?” he says carefully.

“No,” Natasha says again. “They spent a lot of money on ballet over the years. I think we were in debt until papa died and we got the life insurance. I never wanted to disappoint her.”

“I don’t think anyone has that kind of control over their life,” Clint replies. “It was an accident. They could’ve spent no money and it might’ve still happened.”

Natasha is quiet, and then she tilts her head up to kiss him softly. “You’re alright, Clint.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he grins. “And we still have one day here, right? That’s all the time in the world.”

Mrs Romanova doesn’t seem to be upset to see them leave, and before Clint knows it he’s back in the store with Kate, tattooing a rainbow onto the ankle of a college girl. He has a large coffee on the desk behind him with a simple smiley face drawn onto the side.

Kate sees it and raises her eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“Coffee,” Clint replies automatically. “Your next appointment is in twenty.”

“That’s a classic Clint deflection if I’ve ever seen one,” Kate snorts. She wheels her chair over and sits beside him, peering at the tattoo over his shoulder. “Wanna tell me what the two of you got up to over the weekend?”

“Nat’s mum’s a bit of a bitch,” Clint shrugs. “She can cook a mean kotleti though.”

“Ha!” Kate cries, and Clint takes the needle away from his client’s skin until he’s sure that Kate’s not going to hit him. “You called her Nat.”

“It’s a nickname,” Clint says. “Everyone has nicknames, Katie.”

“You fucked,” Kate says, then claps her hands over her mouth in excitement. “You totally did it. In her mum’s house! Oh my fucking _god_ Clint Barton.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint tells his client, who’s silently laughing into the crook of her arm. “We’re apparently in the business of over-sharing.”

“Shut up,” Kate crows. “You did it. I need all the details. We’re ordering take out and you’re telling me everything.”

“Your client,” Clint reminds her. He finishes the rainbow and wraps it for the girl, then leads her over to the desk for payment. “Let’s just get through the day first, okay?”

“Okay,” Kate gushes. “Wow. It’s about time, boss.”

The rest of Clint’s day is spent ignoring the looks Kate shoots him, as well as the texts she sends whenever she has her hands free. If Clint wasn’t deliriously happy he might be annoyed, but not even Kate’s excessive enthusiasm can ruin his day. He tattoos a polar bear onto the bicep of a guy with a foot long beard, then adds another three infinity symbols to the new monthly tally. It puts him in the lead just slightly, which is enough to shut Kate up for a good half an hour.

They have four walk-ins in the afternoon, all easy and done in no time at all. Clint loves meeting every new person and hearing their stories, even the sappy ones that he thinks are kind of lame. Sometimes they point to his tattoos, the snake on his right arm and the three arrows on his left, and he makes a new story up for them every time; today the arrows mean luck in ancient cultures, and the snake represents bad luck, so he’s kept himself pretty evenly balanced. He’s not sure why people believe him, especially when Kate howls with laughter from the other side of the room.

It’s a long day, but they end up settled in the office with pizza and garlic knots. Clint’s meat lovers is exactly what he needs after a weekend of delicious but weird Russian food, and Kate’s got a large pepperoni that he knows for a fact she won’t be able to finish.

“So,” Kate waggles her eyebrows. “Tell me everything.”

“Nothing to tell,” Clint mumbles around his mouthful. “Had a nice weekend in Brighton Beach.”

Kate flicks a burnt piece of pepperoni at him. “What’s nice about Brighton Beach?”

“The beach, for one,” Clint says. “There’s a lot of cool stores. Russian chocolate is almost like eating cement.”

“Disgusting,” Kate screws her nose up. “How many rooms were there?”

“Is this important?” Clint asks, but at the look on her face he concedes. “Fine. Two.”

“How many beds?”

She’s got him, and she knows it. “There was one bed, but to be fair –”

“I knew it!” Kate crows, clapping her hands together in excitement. “You slept with Natasha.”

“There was a lot of sleeping, especially at night,” Clint jokes. Kate frowns so hard he’s almost certain she’s going to pop a vein. “Fine. We also had sex.”

“Thank you God,” Kate says to the ceiling. She throws a whole garlic knot in her mouth and chews loudly, speaking around the food. “So, are you two a thing now?”

“Kate, it was one night and I’ve barely seen her since we got back,” Clint explains, mainly because he doesn’t really know the answer to it himself. “I’m just… seeing how things go.”

“Cute!” Kate declares. “I fully support you and Natasha casually boning. Just make sure you wrap it before you tap it.”

Clint throws the whole box of garlic knots at her head. She squeals and then starts laughing, loud and deep-bellied, the type of laughter that has him laughing in seconds too. They keep laughing long after it stops being funny, and Clint's never been more thankful for his annoying almost-sister in his life.

The next morning Clint finds Natasha leaning against the front door of his store, a coffee and takeaway bag balanced in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She grins when she sees him, and steps right up to kiss him in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Morning,” she hums against his lips. The sound of her voice alone is almost enough to make him come in his pants.

“What’s all this?” he asks, pulling himself from her before he gets side tracked. She just smirks, stamping her cigarette out under her boot. He unlocks the door and gestures for her to go first. “I’m not complaining at all, by the way.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton,” Natasha says drily. She puts the coffee and bag down on the desk, then grabs him by his shirt and pulls him in again. The kiss is hot and filthy and exactly what he needs to wake up in the morning. He’s absolutely obsessed with her, drunk off the taste and feel of her body.

He pulls away just enough to speak. “I’m feeling very flattered right now.”

Natasha’s laugh is deep in her throat. She strokes a thumb over his cheek, then across his lips. Her eyes are soft yet calculating, so quintessentially Natasha. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that look on anyone else’s face before.

“I bought you a bagel,” Natasha says. “I broke into the café to make you a coffee.”

“Steve will be scandalised,” Clint teases.

She rolls her eyes. “He’s too concerned about losing a bet with Bucky to even care about anything else at the moment.”

Clint’s interest is definitely piqued. “What kind of bet?”

“All I know is that it involves you and a tattoo for the loser.”

Clint loves tattoo bets. Him and Kate used to have a shot every time someone came in after losing a bet, but they had to stop because there was just so many of them. Sometimes it’s stupid, especially when the tattoo is pointless or rude, and Kate’s had a few inappropriate body placement requests in her time, but still. It’s generally all in good fun.

“I’m so down for that,” Clint says. “And thanks, for the bagel.”

Natasha shrugs a shoulder and leans back against the desk. “Busy day?”

“A little,” Clint replies. He takes a sip of coffee and actually moans. “You wanna split the bagel?”

She shrugs again and Clint rips the bagel in half, getting cream cheese everywhere in the process. Natasha nibbles on her piece, watching him stuff his face with mild amusement. Eating breakfast is something he could start getting used to.

It’s comfortable with her even in silence. He thought it might be a little awkward to see her again after the weekend but she makes everything so easy despite her stubbornness. Plus, its just Natasha. He enjoys her company regardless of what they’re doing. It scares him a little because he’s never had anyone like this before, not even his mother who was his favourite person in the world before she died. Barney used to tell him not to trust anyone in foster care, and he carried it with him for longer than he needed to.

Now he has her, someone he can trust, and its different to when he dated Bobbi, or any of the other people he dated before her. For some reason he just knows that Natasha won’t be anyone else except for herself around him, and he can be the same with her, and its new and exciting and he kind of hopes that whatever _this_ is will last.

Eventually she hands him the last few bites of her bagel and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “If I told you I have to go to work.”

Clint snags her around the waist and pulls her into his chest. “If I told you I didn’t want you to work.”

“You have to work too, dummy,” she says. She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then ducks out of his arms, almost at the door before he can even react. “Still want to watch me dance?”

Clint can sense the hesitation in her voice, even if she doesn’t visibly show it. “Course I do. Just tell me when and where, baby.”

She raises an eyebrow at the name. “I’ll meet you at your apartment on Saturday.”

Natasha’s out the door without waiting for an answer, and Clint watches her cross the road and duck into the café instead. He shakes his head and takes another mouthful of coffee. _Just right_. She knows the way to his heart.

Clint’s never seen anything quite as cool as Natasha dancing. It’s like watching art, the feeling he gets at the end of a tattoo when the lines are fresh and sharp. He doesn’t really know what’s happening except that it’s beautiful.

“She’s really good,” he says. He can’t take his eyes off of her, which isn’t really that far from normal anyway. “She has to be the best.”

“She was,” the girl beside him, Yelena, confirms. She’s got blonde hair and a round face and seems to hang off everything Natasha does. Natasha had introduced her as her protégé with the kind of sad smile that made Clint a little sad, too. “I could watch her all day.”

Natasha stops and the music cuts off abruptly. She’s got a scowl on her face that could bring men to their knees, hair sticky with sweat across her temples. She snaps something in Russian that doesn’t sound particularly nice, and Yelena calls something back that could be encouraging or pitying, Clint isn’t really sure. He gives her a thumbs up anyway and sees her roll her eyes in the mirror.

Yelena re-starts the music and Natasha keeps going, repeating a few steps to get back into the groove of it. It’s when she has to go up on her toes that she falters just slightly again, face pinched in pain.

Yelena sighs. “I would hate to not be able to dance.”

“She can still dance,” Clint says, glancing at the younger girl. “Just not professionally, right?”

“It’s painful, though she’ll never admit it,” Yelena replies. “It took her a long time to heal. I was only a kid back then.”

Clint frowns and watches Natasha again, eyes on her legs as if he knows what they look like after being broken. “How long did it take?”

“Nearly two years, but it would’ve been quicker if her mama didn’t push her to keep going.”

There’s a weird twisting of anger in Clint’s chest, the kind he doesn’t know if he’s entitled to feel yet. It’s a little concerning for him, how much he cares about Natasha and her feelings, since it _has_ really only been half a year or so of them knowing each other. He doesn’t even know if Natasha _likes him_ likes him.

“Why would she do that?” Clint says, not really expecting an answer.

Yelena shrugs. “Mrs Romanova always wanted her to win. She had Natasha on a stupid diet, and she ended up fracturing her foot when she should have been resting. Things might have been different if Galina had just listened to the doctors.”

Yelena looks at him as if she’s only just realising she shouldn’t have told him that. Clint keeps his eyes on Natasha, watching her spin on the spot, and thinks about all of the medals and trophies in her room, how she could still be doing what she loved if it weren’t for her mother.

“That’s shit,” Clint whispers as the song ends. Natasha curtseys them in the mirror and he claps automatically, smile stuck to his face. Yelena looks like she might burst from admiration.

“Show me again,” she says when Natasha is standing in front of them. “The fouette. You haven’t done that in years, Natka!”

Natasha’s face is flushed and happy. “I didn’t think I could.”

She flops down next to Clint, tutu poking into his hip. She gives him a look like she's expecting him to say something but he hasn’t got the words to tell her just how amazing it was. He squeezes her hand and she brings his tattooed knuckles up to kiss and he thinks that words don’t mean as much as the actions, anyway.

Yelena bounds to her feet and beckons Natasha forward. “ _Please_ show me.”

“Okay,” Natasha laughs, kisses his hand one last time and joins her friend in front of the mirror again. Clint leans his head back against the wall and smiles softly to himself. He’ll happily stay there all day if gets to see that look on her face again.

Natasha’s apartment is sparse in furniture but covered in plants. Her cat is black, and she tells him between a laugh and a kiss that Liho means unlucky in Russian. The cat weaves its way between his legs and sits watching them in the doorway until he gets up to close the door. He doesn’t care that it’s just a cat: she might still know exactly what they’re doing.

Clint dives back under the covers and nestles himself straight back between Natasha’s thighs, tongue flattening over her clit as he pushes a finger into her. She moans and he can feel her nails dig into the top of his head, keeping his face right where she wants it. Going down on Natasha is fast becoming his new favourite afternoon activity.

He adds another finger, keeps up his rhythm until she yanks on his hair and comes with a shout. She looks at him with a lazy smile and hooded eyes, then drags him up her body to kiss him. It’s one of the dirtiest kisses of his life, all tongue and wetness, and then he feels her hand on his cock, condom rolled down, and he’s inside her before he can really catch his breath.

Later, he watches from her bed as Natasha moves around the bedroom fluidly, watering can in one hand and spray bottle in the other. Liho sits beside him, definitely judging his nakedness and all of the dirty things she no doubt heard him moaning about. He wants to pet her but isn’t convinced she won’t bite him.

“How do you know what they all need?” he asks her, voice gruff.

“They come with instructions, Clint,” Natasha teases. “I just remember.”

“I’ve kept my birds nest thing alive,” he says. “Don’t know about the other one. Something about praying?”

“Prayer plant,” Natasha supplies. She looks at him over her shoulder, hair a cascade of red down her back. “I’m coming over to check them.”

“You can come over anytime you want,” Clint says suggestively. “Lucky loves you.”

“I’ve met Lucky once.”

“But he loves you,” Clint affirms. “I could see it in his puppy-dog eyes.”

“Okay,” Natasha laughs. She sprays some small plants on her chest of drawers, then sets the bottle and watering can down and clambers back into bed with none of the grace she possessed in the studio earlier. “What does this stand for?”

Clint looks to his hand and the Roman numerals. “My mum’s birthdate. I almost put her death date too, but. That part sucked.”

“Hmm,” Natasha hums. She turns his arm over to trace the three arrows tattooed there. “And this?”

“This one represents my parents dying,” he says softly, pointing out the particular arrow. “This one was when my brother left me in foster care. And the third… I was homeless for a while. But then I kept trying and I got out of it, so I guess it’s a reminder to just. Keeping moving forward.”

“That’s nice,” Natasha whispers. She pillows her face on his bicep, tracing the Roman numerals with her pinky finger. “I think I want another tattoo.”

“Well, you know where to find me,” Clint says. He strokes a hand over her hair and down her back. Her shoulder blades are sharp, and he remembers what Yelena had said about her mother. “I thought you were amazing today, by the way.”

“It was okay,” Natasha concedes.

“I don’t know why you can't dance professionally,” he continues. “Surely you would ace all the other girls at the audition.”

Natasha tenses slightly. “There’s too much risk. No one wants to take a chance on me anymore.”

“As if they all know about it,” Clint says incredulously. She twists her head up just to glare at him, and he quickly realises his mistake. “Okay, so people in the ballet world talk. But really, how bad can a broken leg be?”

Natasha pulls away from him, and he mentally curses his big mouth. He doesn’t want to pressure her into talking about it, but he’s curious and also just angry with her mother. There’s a sadness she seems to carry on her shoulders and he doesn’t even fully understand why.

“I’m sorry, Nat, I didn’t mean to –”

“It was my spine,” she says. Her eyebrows knit together, and Clint wonders if she’s suddenly about to start crying. “I broke my spine.”

The words don’t seem to comprehend in his brain. “What? How the fuck do you do that?”

“I fell,” Natasha says bitterly, but nestles back into his chest. “I fucking fell off the stage. I couldn’t walk –”

Her breath hitches but there are no tears on her face. Clint’s mind swims with the thought of Natasha being paralysed, even if it was obviously only temporary. What kind of mother would push her daughter to keep dancing after she broke her spine? He lets out a shaky breath and files his anger away.

“I thought it was your leg,” he says lamely.

Natasha snorts. “No, but I did end up fracturing my foot later on. When the doctor says not to dance for a year, you should listen to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says.

“Don’t be,” Natasha answers easily. “I’m getting over it, remember?”

Clint takes Natasha to the ballet. At first he’s not sure if it’s a good idea, doesn’t really know if she appreciates the art or if it’s just like throwing salt on her wounds. She wears a black dress with a killer slit down the side and she’s so pretty that Clint spends most of the show watching her and the tiny expressions that pass over her face every time something exciting happens on the stage. It’s a good idea, in the end, and they go to Central Park and eat ice creams and spend the whole rest of the weekend in bed, Natasha’s demon cat watching him like a hawk.

Steve and Bucky’s bet heats up as they draw closer to the finish line. No one has any idea what the bet actually is, just that Steve has already been in Clint’s store three times to plead with him that he won’t tattoo anything horrible if Steve happens to lose, which he won’t, according to Steve. Kate thinks the whole thing is great and spends so much time at the café teasing them that Clint doesn’t need to go over for coffee.

Tony Stark gets _Property of Pepper Potts_ tattooed across his lower back and then announces his undying love for her on national television. Clint buys five more plants and keeps them all alive, and Natasha brings so many succulents into the store that he has new shelving installed to fit all of the pots. Carol and her wife call in to get infinity symbols tattooed on their ring fingers and Kate wins the monthly tally by a hair.

Clint buys her drinks all night, but he does it begrudgingly.

Natasha gets another two tattoos as well, the first an arrow of her own between her breasts, delicate and fine with tiny floral elements added in. The second is script along her collarbone, _fallaces sunt rerum species_ standing out in stark lettering against her pale skin, and when Clint asks what it means she just kisses him until they end up fucking on the desk in the office. He doesn’t tell Kate, but from the way she avoids going in there he thinks she knows already.

Everything is good. They introduce Lucky to Liho like two parents bringing together their kids, and to Natasha’s disdain they instantly fall in love with each other. They watch movies and argue and fall into a life that feels as easy as breathing. Natasha teaches Yelena on the weekend and they go back to Brighton Beach for the pryaniki specifically. She doesn’t smoke as much and Clint _knows_ , he can feel it in his bones. How he more than _like_ likes her now.

It’s late on a Wednesday night, and Kate stays back to help him pack up. The USS Enterprise/ Simpsons crossover that no one asked for is finished, Greg finally leaving the store without having to make another appointment. It’s a small victory, and they celebrate with a shot the way they used to.

“You’ve done alright for yourself boss,” Kate says. She looks at him squarely, and he can see the honesty in her eyes. “I’m happy for you.”

“Careful Katie,” he says before he can get too emotional. “People will think you actually care.”

She laughs and shoves his shoulder, then starts rambling about how Darcy’s best friend Jane just met this Norwegian guy who apparently looks like a God, and looking at everything around him Clint can't help but agree with her.

He’s done alright. That’s all that matters.

Clint doesn’t ever open on the Fourth of July, but he makes an exception for Steve Rogers’ ass.

The bets over, and Steve apparently lost, and now Clint gets to tattoo the American flag on his right butt cheek. They make a night out of it, ordering pizza and wings and hot dogs with pickles. He orders an extra side of pickles just to see the look on Natasha’s face. He doesn’t care if he’ll be kissing vinegar-y lips all night if she looks _that_ happy.

“Pants down, Rogers,” Natasha calls from the chair she’s pulled up.

Kate wolf-whistles and Steve’s face turns an alarming shade of red in less than a second, but he does as he’s told and lies down on the chair. Bucky is laughing so hard he can barely place the stencil, and then everything is ready to go and Clint can't help but laugh a little too.

“It might sting a bit, Steve. Let me know if you need a break.”

For the most part, Steve doesn’t even flinch. “I can't believe I lost.”

“Quit your whining, Stevie,” Bucky says. “You never should have bet with me in the first place.”

“What’s the bet?” Kate asks, doing what neither Clint nor Natasha could do and actually asking.

“Who could get the most phone numbers,” Bucky says triumphantly. “But from _girls_.”

“You could’ve made it something he would actually have a chance in, James,” Natasha scoffs. “Rogers is far too gay for that.”

“I got fifteen numbers, thank you very much,” Steve protests.

“I got fifty-two,” Bucky grins.

The tattoo itself doesn’t take long, and before they know it Steve Rogers has an American flag flying freely on his ass. Clint snaps a picture and promises not to name names on Instagram, and then Kate takes a picture too for good measure. Bucky gives him a kiss and a beer and half an hour later he’s laughing about it too, spread out on the ground since he can't sit down on it.

Clint’s a few beers in when Kate has the bright idea to Uber Eats a couple of giant cookie pizzas. He’s sitting on his chair, watching his friends bicker over which flavour is best, and it occurs to him that life has never been better before. He’s not one to dwell much on the past but he never would have pictured this: his own store, a best friend that was more like family, new friends too; and then a girl that he would drop everything for in the blink of an eye, a girl he would meet at a café who would kind of change his life.

He catches Natasha’s eye and smiles softly. She scoops up a slice of cookie pizza and weaves her way over to him, a little tipsy and unsteady on her feet. She sits herself on his lap like it was made just for that and offers him a bite of the cookie.

“It’s white chocolate macadamia,” she whispers to him. “By far the superior cookie flavour.”

He wraps an arm around her waist and takes a bite of the cookie. It’s perfectly baked and melts in his mouth. If he had one of Natasha’s coffees right now he might just die and go to heaven. She takes a bite too and then leans in to kiss him, and it’s sugary sweet, the kind that makes his head spin.

“If I told you that I love you?” Clint says.

Natasha beams, bright and brilliant. Beautiful.

“If I told you that I love you, too?”


End file.
